


Royally Drab

by orphan_account



Series: a rose among brambles [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Tumblr: imagineyourotp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Formerly Tumblr Drabbles) A collection of drabbles about Anora. Because I have gross feelings for a fictional queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Miscarriage

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt: Imagine your OTP having a miscarriage/losing a child.
> 
> Content warning for, you guessed it, brief description of a miscarriage.

She had been pregnant once.

Her body ran like clockwork, she knew it better than the handmaiden who changed her sheets and handled her unmentionables. So when a month passed and there had been nothing, and another few weeks passed and still nothing, she knew. She knew when nausea clutched her stomach and she woke nearly every morning having to rush to a chamber pot and heave whatever was left in her stomach from the night before.

She knew, and only Erlina knew sometime following the queen’s discovery. They kept it to themselves, mouths sewn shut, as the first few months were always the most vulnerable so they say. But Anora was content, happy almost, and though she didn’t feel ready for a child nor did she particularly want to be a mother, it was something she had to do. It was what a queen was for, to usher in a new line of kings, to secure the Theirin bloodline. She may be a skilled politician, but she had always been a vessel first and foremost to the rest of the nobility, and after two years of trying her assigned role was finally playing out as it should.

Her husband seemed to know something was different, despite that Anora had often lamented how thickheaded he could be. He gave her long looks at dinner, seemed far more attentive than usual outside of the bedroom, and when he said she looked positively glowing one evening she had to stop Erlina in the hall and question the elf. But neither of them had said anything to the king and Anora knew she was overreacting.

Cailan was to know sometime during the third month, and she had been looking forward to it despite the worry that caught in her stomach each time the thought crossed her mind. He would be happy no doubt, and probably just as nervous as she. He had wanted to be a father, the two of them having discussed the expectance of heirs in what had once been the near future, but he had also been apprehensive about the sort of father he would be when the time came.

The opportunity to tell him never came. She woke one morning to intense pain stemming from her abdomen, her entire lower half cramping up. When she pulled the comforter away there was blood staining the sheets, staining the inside of her legs. Through the waves of cramps she bundled up a corner of the blanket and pressed it against herself as though trying to will it to stop. Her husband was sleeping next to her, peaceful, unaware of his wife huddled over with tears streaming down her face. It was her cry for Erlina that woke him, and as he saw the blood the colour drained from his face. He didn’t ask what was wrong, instead heeding her pleas and running to fetch the elf.

He didn’t ask her when it was all said and done, when the dirtied sheets were taken away and the queen had been cleaned up and instructed to remain in bed. He didn’t even say anything as he entered the room and saw her lying on her side, looking small and sad as she balled herself up and drew her legs towards her chest despite the nurses telling her to remain still. She was healthy, they said, nothing explicitly wrong with her, but she looked fragile and Erlina cautioned him to be gentle as she left her mistress’s side. He took a seat by the side of the bed, and she didn’t look at him, turning over so her back was facing him. Cailan reached out to rest a comforting hand on a quaking shoulder, and after a few moments Anora placed her hand on top of his offered assurance.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was thin and hollow, and it wavered like a dam ready to break. She felt tired and weak and empty. Her husband scooted the chair closer, resting his face in the crook of her neck. She felt tears and she couldn’t understand why he was crying over something he didn’t even know he could lose.

She had been pregnant once, but it wasn’t for very long.


	2. Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt: Imagine person A of your OTP attending person B’s funeral.

There was no funeral, there was never to be a funeral and both of them knew it; they just never knew the when. It wasn’t until he felt the song rattle his very bones that he knew, and he didn’t tell her.

He slipped out while she was asleep, wanting to go to bed as though everything would be the same tomorrow. “Goodnight” sounded a hell of a lot better than “goodbye”. He packed lightly, satchel full of boring foods made to last until he reached his destination. The only thing heavy was the armour he wore, the shield of a man long dead and a sword an old friend had given him at his back. He took a horse he knew could make the trip but would not be missed, and lead it to the gate.

She was waiting for him there, wearing a nightgown, the thin light of morning smoothing the age of her face, bathing the greying of her hair with a golden light. After years of a marriage neither of them had wanted, she knew him better than most. He never could slip away without her knowing, even if it had been for a quick run to the larder for a midnight snack.

Her expression was grim, but it warmed at his approach. They said nothing, merely looking at each other with a mutual understanding until it was she that broke the silence.

“Do you have everything?” There was a certain weight to her voice.

After a second or so of considering and trying to remain composed, he responded with an even tone. “I believe so.”

Her smile grew chiding, and she motioned for him to hold out his hand. He did so, and in his upturned palm he felt the familiar weight of a rune that had been smoothed from years of worry. He hadn’t seen the rune in years, having given it to her as a good luck charm of sorts when she had been pregnant and instructed to remain in bed for both her and the child’s safety. He could have sworn she had stuck it in some drawer after their son’s birth, never to be seen again.

He opened his mouth to say something, but she shook her head. She reached up to place a soft hand to his cheek, looking at him with a sort of fondness that he had never expected to see from her during their early years of marriage.

“Have a safe trip, husband.”

He tucked the worn rune away and brought his hand to press against hers, brushing his lips briefly against the heel of her palm affectionately.

“I will.”


	3. Women Can Cry

Women can cry, but not the queen.

Those were the words whispered to the handmaiden as the queen rested her head upon the elf’s chest. This was not the first night they had lain together, but it was their first night after the king’s untimely death. Timidly Erlina had asked her mistress of Cailan, nimble elvhen fingers lightly caressing unbraided hair, whether the queen missed her husband. That was the response Erlina had received.

Women can cry, but not the queen. It was simply not something a queen should do.

There would be talk regardless of how the queen had reacted. Had she broken down at her father’s feet and wept, she would be deemed a frail woman not fit to rule. Had she not reacted at all, she was a cold woman, with no emotion and little care for anyone other than herself. Anora had chosen the latter, and as such the rumours spread as they are apt to do.

In gossip, the queen was cold. To those who believed the rumours, the queen was cold. But to Erlina, the queen was warm. At her lips, the queen was warm. At her fingertips the queen was warm. On top of her the queen was warm and beneath her the queen grew even warmer.

And the tears that did fall in the darkness, they were warm as well, and the handmaiden said nothing as they cooled on her breast.


	4. The Lady

There is word of a lady in a tower.

She had been loved, but now sits forgotten, replaced by another.

Her only visitor is a guard who stops by once a day, clad in armour, his nod unfamiliar and cold, the tray he offers bearing little food that is to last her for the day.

The lady in a tower sits and stares out the window.

Facing where she believes is the sea and where she believes was once the town she had grown up in.

The town where her father had bounced her on his knee.

The town where mother taught her how to tend a rose bush.

The town where children were cruel. 

The town that made her lonely and taught her that she should only look out for herself.

The town of braided pigtails and skinned knees.

The town that father had left and where her mother had died.

 

Someone wearing a dead man’s face finally pays a visit. He looks at her, and she at him.

At last he gives his word.

She does not weep, she is far to weary. The lady continues to stare out to where she thinks is the sea, and she hears a sword being drawn from behind.

Her chin is raised, her shoulders set and strong.

Her eyes shut, and she is no longer in a tower.


	5. Braids

She had been sitting in bed reading a book when he entered the room, door swinging open carelessly. He wore nothing but his trousers and smelled of sweat and perfume. His hair was loose and hung limp about his face and his cheeks were pink and hot from wine and exertion. He swaggered to the bed in the manner of both a drunk and of a man who had the life sucked out of him, and sat himself down at the foot of her bed, nearly missing and winding up on the floor like a fool.

There was silence coupled with the sound of him panting, and nothing was said even as the queen set aside her book and watched him expectantly. The walls to his room adjacent to hers were thin enough where she knew what he had done before he even entered her room, and there was the patter of bare feet echoing through the hallway outside. It was the third time this week, and Anora wanted to slap the man for it. But she was tired, and she was weary, and she had better things to do than concern herself with the king’s dalliances. Normally they never agitated her, but normally Cailan never entered her room directly after the act.

And so he sat there, running shaking fingers through his long hair, and Anora continued to watch as clumsy fingers began to attempt to braid the loosened strands. From her position alone she can tell his braid would turn out ridiculous, so she sighed and threw off her covers, crawling over towards him and halting his ministrations with cold fingers.

“Allow me, dear husband” she said as she skillfully undid the disaster that was his drunken hairstyle, and lithe fingers began to weave and coax knotted strands into their proper style.

“I…can never do it… _properly_ on my own.” His tongue was thick and his voice slurred, and his wife offered him a simple ‘tut-tut’ as though to shut him up. Yet he persisted.

“Cyntia does it well enough…Anna Marie has the hands but no technique and Rin has the technique but not th-“

Anora yanked on his nearly completed braid and he yelped, trying to jerk his head away from her which only succeeded in pulling his hair yet again.

“Are you talking of hairstyles or of how these women perform in bed?” Anora was praised and ridiculed for her bluntness, but there was no need to beat around the bush, especially when Cailan was concerned. He blushed and Anora could see it in his scalp. In that silence his braids were completed and tied together with a snap of a band, and she expected him to rise and head back to his room, back to Cyntia or Anna Marie or Rin or whoever might be lying in wait, ready for another go. But instead he brought his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes wearily.

“They never do it as well as you.” It’s said behind his hands and Anora had wished she missed it. She rolled her eyes and began to move away, but his hand grabbed her wrist and he silently pleaded her to stay. Sitting back on her feet, she obliged, humouring him as he continued to grip her wrist, staring at door to her room.

Another moment of silence passes, and in another clumsy movement he brought himself completely on the bed, letting go of her wrist, turning to face her and to rest both hands on her shoulders. She un-tucked her feet out from under her in an attempt to scramble away, but he was broad and strong even in his drunken state, and urged her to lie back. She resisted, but then gave in, sinking into the plush comforter of the bed. Her husband looked down at her, eyes empty and tired and sad. His knee went between her legs, pressed up against her, and he brought his head down to sloppily kiss her jawline. She turned away and he stopped, resting his coarse cheek against her smooth one, his breath warm against her ear and the smell of perfume and alcohol overwhelming her senses.

“You’re better, you know what to do.” He sat up, adjusting himself between her legs, hands at her hips. She was unresponsive and stared up at the canopy of the bed, and he worked his way up her nightskirt, touching her stomach, her breasts…

“I’m sorry, Anora. You know I am.”

She was quiet, her eyes shut. She didn’t say anything, even as he brought himself down on top of her once again, rocking against her, still clothed, but needful all the same.

Of course he’s sorry. He always was.


	6. Girly Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's stupid fluff.

He’s lying on his bed… _their_ bed, propped up against a large array of fancy pillows, running his fingers through his hair as he watches his wife undergo her nightly ritual, unbraiding her hair, unlacing her corset and complicated undergarments. It’s been a few years, he no longer flushes or stammers when she disrobes and changes into a sheer nightgown, nor does he watch her with the immature hunger that all young men seem to possess. She’s pretty to him now that he’s gotten over the cool ice of her eyes, now that they’ve gotten over a few bumps and misunderstandings, and he watches her as one would watch a statue.

Quiet, thoughtful, with admiration and a slight fear that she might topple over and crush him.

They still weren’t a proper married couple, not like in the books he used to read, and they probably won’t ever be _proper_. But his eyes stray to the small curve of her swelling belly, and he thinks that he might at least have a proper family.

He’s never had that before.

“We’ve been over the boy names.” He says as she settles herself under the covers, and she looks at him from the corner of her eye before snorting lightly and turning away from him.

“We have.” She’s tired, it’s been a long day and her body aches. She’s nauseous and unpleasant and in no mood to discuss names. “No to Loghain and no to Duncan, and I do believe you were joking when you suggested Oghren.”

He laughs to himself, confirming her assumptions, and she smiles towards the wall, still not turning over to face him. She feels him shift, pressing his chest up against her back, and he brings a heavy arm over her body to pull her closer to him. She grunts. He’s breathing against her ear and it’s annoying. When he speaks, it tickles, and she squirms to move away.

“We haven’t discussed girl names.”

“We have not, because boys are heirs and girls are daughters.” She says it plainly, bitterly, and he takes note, his voice careful.

“I’ve always wanted a daughter. Never really given much thought to heirs.” He feels her squirming again and lets go, giving her space and rolling on his back once more to stare at the ceiling.

Both of them are quiet, his wife’s breathing grows even and he thinks her asleep, so he begins speaking again.

“Can’t say I’m any good at coming up with girly names. Bessie’s the only one I can think of.”

The queen coughs, either in disgust or holding back a laugh or both, he still isn’t able to tell. But it means she’s awake.

“Are you…any good at it? I mean, seeing as you’re a woman and all…”

She rolls her eyes; such tact, her husband. She readies her retort, a sarcastic remark to get him to shut up, to get him to leave her alone and let her get her needed bed rest, but there’s a gut reaction and she’s drawn to the distant sound of her father’s voice.

A name, he speaks of her fondly. She never knew who she was, just that he had been a boy and she had meant the world to him.

“Adalla.” The name falls from her lips in a whisper, and the king inches closer to hear her better.

“What was that?”

“Adalla is a pretty name. Noble, honourable.” And a quiet connection to her father that he won’t be able to place an argument against.

Her husband hums thoughtfully, testing the name on his lips, drawing out the syllables unnecessarily, and he laughs. “It is a good name.” She turns to face him, and in the dim light of the moon she can see him smiling as he continues. “And if we do have a son, we can use that name for his first mabari instead.”

She frowns at him, narrowing her eyes. “ _Alistair_.”

“What?”


	7. Eyes

Whenever he looked into her eyes, he saw her father. Sharp blue, cold as ice, calculating and stern, he had told his friend that when he looked at her he saw Loghain each and every time. On their wedding day he saw Loghain, on their disaster of a wedding night he saw Loghain, on what was to be their honeymoon (spent rebuilding Denerim and soothing wounded political relations) he saw Loghain.

They hadn’t slept together, they kept to certain rooms, and while he studied and excelled in politics in the few short months of their marriage (much to Anora’s surprise), they exchanged few words and little pleasantries.

It was at dinner when it happened. When something broke and the ghost of a man sent off to Orlais finally disappeared. Anora cut it with the weapon that was her words, her strong composed nature keeping her voice calm and straightforward as she stared at Alistair through the large stuffed turkey that sat between them.

 

"My mother had blue eyes."

Alistair looked up, mid-bite into his turkey leg.

"What?"

"My  _mother_  had blue eyes.”

The king chewed slowly, looking confused. It was an odd conversational starter in comparison to their usual neutral, straightforward,  _forced_  dinner conversations. Anora’s lips thinned, twisting into a characteristic frown. There was a familiar crease between her brow, a darkened expression, and it reminded him of…….

"Does it bother you when people compare you to Maric?" She continued looking at him, fork stilled at her plate. "Or what of the people who compare you to Cailan? Does it bother you?"

The confusion remained on Alistair’s face, turkey leg discarded, flecks of meat and spice hanging to the corners of his mouth. He had come so far as a king, admirable really, but his eating habits were still that of a Warden and he spoke without wiping his mouth.

"Of course it does." Catching himself, he quickly amended his mistake and wiped him mouth…with the back of his hand. He looked away from Anora, avoiding her gaze, her look, those eyes that reminded him so much of…

"When I look at you, I don’t see your father. I don’t see your brother." Anora rose from her seat, setting her napkin down on the table, hands fanning out to brace against the tabletop as she looked down upon a king who shrunk meekly in his chair.

"I see a man who is of his own self. A man whose profile may remind me of my late husband, a man whose  _eyes_  remind me of my  _father’s_  friend lost and dead at sea, but when I look at you I don’t  _see_  those men.” She balled a fist against the table, finally looking away, giving Alistair breathing room to look up and to look at her while her gaze was averted.

There was a momentary lapse in her usual composure, and he saw it, a hunching of shoulders, a soft frown that shattered ice and watered down into sadness. Her roots were beginning to show where her scalp was pulled back, dark and black and coarse in contrast to the kept sheen of blonde hair that marked nobility.

When she looked back at him, she caught his gaze, held it there, pinned him down and  _kept_  him looking at her.

"When I look at you I see Alistair." Her posture straightened, back stiff as though held up by an iron brace, and she pushed her chair in, allowing for its feet to scrape against the cold stone floor.

"I only wish you saw  _Anora_  when looking at me.”

And at that she left the dining room with a sweeping of skirts, Erlina approaching her at the threshold to walk with her through the halls of the palace. Her leaving left the room cold and empty, a door slamming and echoing along with her words.

Alistair felt a knot twist at the pit of his stomach, and for once in his life, he had lost his appetite.


	8. Loud

Anora’s loud.

_Incredibly_  loud.

Nobody says a word out of fear of embarrassing the queen, who emerges from her bedchambers dressed and ready for a day of politicking followed by the king who never looks quite as ready as she. She’s entirely unaware, and many believe it to be in their best interests to keep it that way. Nobody wants to break the news to the queen, as uncomfortable it may be to whoever patrols the halls during the night.

_Alistair_  certainly isn’t going to say anything to her. He quite likes it, even if he flushes each time a servant gives him a pointed look, even when he stammers at Erlina’s humoured comments. But he’s always the sort of man who revels in affirmation. He grins whenever Anora compliments how much he had developed as a political leader despite the first few months of trial and error. And he…well, does  _other_  things that would make the sisters at the monastery curl their toes in disapproval whenever Anora loudly proclaims how much he has developed in the bedroom.

But he still feigns embarrassment at the looks he gets, he still tries his damnedest to swallow her loud proclamations with his mouth even as he later encourages her with his tongue.

But then Loghain arrives unannounced, greeting his daughter with a warm hug and an explanation of the wardens passing through to see what they can assess of a still-healing land. He looks to his son-in-law with a  _look_ , a sneer, a furrowing of the brow and attempted pleasantries that fall flat as the king has never been quite receptive of his father-in-law even as he understood tactical decisions a bit better than he did when  _he_  had been a warden.

And as Anora takes her father by the hand to take him for a walk, to catch up with him and to talk with him, Alistair leans over towards Erlina who is always a presence. As soon as he’s certain that both queen and her father are out of earshot, he says in a low voice.

"I’m certain my wife’s father would like to stay in the guest room nearest the royal bedchambers."

Erlina’s eyes widen and she lets out a squeak, saying something in Orlesian before correcting herself. “But…your majesty…the queen….she…”

"Would like her father near her during his visit. I am  _certain_.” and Alistair’s posture straightens, clasping his hands behind his back, looking incredibly official despite the smile tugging on his face and the unprofessional thoughts running through his mind.


End file.
